Cock-a-doodle-do!

Cock crow was at 5.51 this morning.

'How did you know that?' says Daisy.

'Because some one in the close vicinity has clearly started keeping hens, and one of those hens is clearly a cock and it was crowing at 5.51 this morning,' said I.

'A cock in the vicinity?' says Primrose.

'Indeed,'says I.

'Oo-er,' says Daisy, and I note more than a little glint in her chickeny eye.

Now, I don't mind a cockerel going off in the morning. I'd rather a cockerel go off in the morning than say, as a random example, a couple effing and blinding at each other at 3.45 a.m, trying to goad each other into a drink fuelled fight. Woke me up good and proper that did. I wanted to yell out of the window at them, but am too much of a coward to face the likely implications of intervening so I clenched the duvet until my knuckles turned white until they went away. And that set off a string of very hot flushes. Couldn't get back to sleep, so decided to get up and write instead. 

I haven't written much recently. Very little impetus. Almost lost impetus completely this week when I realised that I could no longer participate in free speech. But then I thought, if I stop writing I'll no longer be a writer and that would be a very sad thing indeed, so between 4 and 6 this morning I sat at the computer and wrote and wrote, and heard the cock crow at 5.51 just as the sky began to lighten.

And because of the hot flushes I thought I'd make the most of it being the wee small hours and open my study window,to let in some cool night air. This is something I haven't been able to do since the new neighbours moved in as they, and their many acquaintances, sit outside all day chain smoking and shouting at their children and mobile phones.

So I flung open the window. Breathed in the air. Lovely. Fresh. Peace. Calm.

At 4.45, I heard the back door open next door. Someone emerged. Coughing up their lungs. And then the stench of cigarettes drifted into my room. I COULD NOT believe it. Who, in the name of all the demons in Hell, gets up in the wee small hours especially to have a smoke? I slammed my window shut. Carry on writing, I thought. Carry on writing.

By the time the cock crowed I had completed almost 2,000 words of a rather maudlin short story. That is what happens when one writes in a less than happy mood, but hey, it was pretty good writing and at least I had spent the time productively and got the accumulated annoyances of the week out of me.

And I got to thinking about people, and how we live together, tolerate each other, and do or do not stand up for ourselves. I suspect, given this is a built up area, that Mr Cockerel will not last long because someone will complain and he'll be given his marching orders. I hope he ends up on a field somewhere, rather than in a pot with a spot of vin rouge.

 Pity the same can't be done about shouty drunks and anti-social neighbours. They will always be around, disturbing the majority of us who live peaceably alongside each, tolerating the little niggles because that is what polite people do. Be a satellite, I think. I could be a satellite. I could cut free and live my life how I want to live it. Free from noisy, stinky pollution by neighbours. Free from compromise of all sorts because who has the right to tell me what I can and can't do with my life, including getting a decent night of sleep?

But would that make me just as irresponsible as the very suburban society I want to escape? Would that make me equally as selfish, intolerable, careless? I have as much duty to respect the way others want to live their lives. I have to accept the consequences that may occur if I satellite myself. If the neighbours want to chain-smoke their lungs into shrivelled, black lumps, then I should respect that lifestyle choice. Shouldn't I? If a couple want to sort out their issues in public, and maybe have a better relationship for it, shouldn't I be thinking, 'Good for them! At least they aren't afraid to stand up for themselves.'

It is a tricky thing. I have MASSES to be thankful for, of course I do. More than most. And this perhaps is merely a response to me feeling raddled through lack of sleep. And getting older and crabbier. And running out of lovely, cuddly 'n' caring nurturing hormones.

And now I must go because it is not good to wallow. Action is what is needed. Action. How much is a field in the middle of nowhere with a caravan plonked on top? Shall I go and rescue that cockerel now? 

'Yes please,' says Daisy.

'Strumpet,' I say.

'With butter or jam?' says Primrose.

'Strumpet not crumpet,' I say. 'But now you mention it, check the bread bin will you?'

And also, Flora Bijou Mybug has woken from her morning nap and is attempting to help with blog typing and she STILL has no concept of how to use an i-pad!